


It was the smoothie, really.

by SinfullyPresent



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Solo Artist Harry, Tesco!Louis, famous!harry, first fic?, im nervous don't hate me pls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:11:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3934654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinfullyPresent/pseuds/SinfullyPresent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Harry Styles,</em> Leeds Music Festival Headliner,<em> was standing in front of Louis, with a frozen drink that was slowly beginning to resemble puke pruning his toes, as he apologized to Louis, over and over again.</em></p><p>Or, the AU in which Louis is working at Tesco to save up enough money for Leeds, and Harry just happens to be last years Headlining Musician there. A green smoothie and sparkling boots are involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It was the smoothie, really.

_The shitty thing about Tesco at 12:30 in the morning, is the elevator music._

It was one of those things that no one ever paid any mind to, never really bothered with. Which, really, no one could be blamed for. When you’re shopping for your groceries for the week, or for tonights dinner, one doesn't usually go to the lengths of stopping and listening to the never-ending strings of Muzak bouncing off of the walls of the store. It’s just not something you think about in every day life. But, as Louis sat behind the only open cash register of the store, phone secure in hand and half asleep, it was unavoidable. Which, really, is its own form of hell. Louis reckoned that if he were the King of Hell, he would simply stick everybody into one massive room and force them all into listening to lift music for eternity.

The counter he sat at was cold under his elbows, reminding him every time he shifted just how daft he was to have worn such a thin sleeved jumper at such a cool time of the year. In retrospect, though, the idea had had some heart to it, Louis hoping that the cold would help keep him up for his shift. It proved to do the opposite, though, the cold making Louis continuously sleepy as he huddled in on himself, fringe falling into his eyes time and time again. The only thing working to keep Louis awake, now, was the constant vibrations of his phone, infinitely alerting him of a new text from one of his sisters (Jay had just gotten his twin sisters, Daisy and Phoebe, their first phones, and Louis was the only person they had to text, as of now). Louis had even managed to set up a sleep system with the vibrations, letting himself fall asleep just moments before another text would come through. He reckoned that if he managed to do this for the rest of his shift, without interruption, he may be able to get a solid fifteen minutes of sleep, spread over the course of his three hour shift.

The system was proving to work quite well, despite his reluctance to text the couple of girls back, (He loved them, really he did, but for godssake _they could not spell_. It was as if they had forgotten that vowels were a part of the English language.) and he had been refraining well from falling into a deeper slumber, able to keep himself just awake enough to watch as people filed in and out of the store (and if he didn’t see them he’d at least hear the bloody door open). It was late, and Louis was tired, but it was working, and for that, Louis was grateful.

He was typing a response to a particularly bad text from Phoebe (“wht r u do ing rn?”) when there was a tap atop the counter he was sat at. Louis startled, eyes snapping up to see a balding man stood before him, clutching a bag of chocolate buttons and a water bottle. Louis set his phone down, giving the man an apologetic look as he stood before taking his items, ringing them up with practiced ease.

“Late night?” said the man, clearly trying to make conversation in the eerily lonely store. Louis wished he wouldn’t. He had fifteen minutes left, and he didn’t much feel like filling it with meaningless small talk as he rung up his customers.  

Still, he pasted on a smile with a shrug, "Yeah, I work well at night. Seven sixty-four.”

The man nodded, thankfully seeming to understand Louis’ short answer as he collected his money, giving back the man back his change and handing him his items in a bag. Louis sat himself back on the stool, reassuming his position. He imagined he was a bit of a sad figure, really. A twenty-one year old boy taking the last Tesco shift, half asleep and blatantly refusing to have conversation with his customers, opting to curl in on himself in a desperate attempt to stay warm. He couldn’t much find it in himself to care, though.

He had assumed the man had already left, and so when he looked up to see the guy still standing there (after finishing composing his text back to Phoebe), Louis startled, a bolt of annoyance going through his chest. He cleared his throat, “Do you need anything else, sir?” The question was tinged with a sort of impatience that his Boss, Cal, would frown upon. But, it was 12:45 am, and Cal wasn’t around to see jack shit.

The man gave an apologetic look, scratching the top of his head. He looked to be in his mid forties, and Louis couldn’t help but wonder if the balding was a genetics thing or not. It probably was. Were there other reasons for balding? Maybe t- Louis cleared his throat, forcing himself back to the present as the man gave him a pitying look.  

“Ehrm- yeah. There’s a spill in, uhm, Aisle Seven? Some smoothie. I saw it happen and just thought I should, like, let you know,” he spoke quickly, as if he were the bearer of terrible news, and Louis couldn’t help but agree. He felt his stomach sink with the words, his shoulders sagging as he nodded a thank you to the man, already standing up. The man left in a rush and Louis didn’t bother watching him walk out, instead gathering the janitors cart and beginning to wheel it to aisle seven.

Grumbles filled the air around him as he walked, wheels of the cart squeaking through his words as he pushed it, feeling his reluctance to clean the spill grow as time went on. Who drinks smoothies at 12:50 in the morning, anyways? Bloody psychopaths, probably. Or idiot teenagers, just trying to fuck with Louis in his last bits of peace. (And since when had Louis resorted to this? To cursing out the youth? When had he stopped being the youth? He was only twenty one years old, for godssake.)

Fuck, Louis couldn’t wait to be done with this all. He couldn’t bloody wait to throw a fit, to slam down his resignation letter on Cal’s desk and stomp out of the bloody building. The day would be joyous. Hell, the day would be _tomorrow_ if Leeds weren’t so fast approaching. Fuck, if Leeds Music Fest were just a _month_ later Louis wouldn’t have to go through the pain of working two jobs, of working his hands to the bone (okay, a bit of an exaggeration, but he’s tired) for his last bits of money. But he had missed last year. Missed it as in: hadn’t gone. As in: The Harry Styles had headlined Leeds Music Festival and Louis had ending up having to experience it through Snapchat stories and the excited texts from Stan, whose mum had paid for his tickets. Twat.

Louis would not be at home this year, no matter the headliner.

He’d been lost in his thoughts as auto pilot guided him to the correct aisle, the one with the fucking smoothie spill, and when Louis finally stopped in the aisle, it was his jolt of surprise that brought him back to reality.

Louis’ had a total of three thoughts as he rounded the corner of Aisle Seven, with his white, uniform shirt hidden under a Doncaster Rovers jumper, and black jeans sinfully tight around his thighs. The first was that any sane man would not be standing in his own smoothie-induced mess, especially at this time of night (or morning). His second was, embarrassingly enough, about the length of said-mans legs, and the way his black skinny jeans seemed to cling to all the right places. His third thought came quicker and harsher than the rest, a dash of genuine surprise sprinkling itself in his bloodstream.

_Who the fuck wears ankle high boots with that many sparkles on it?_

Louis’ entire body had stopped with the sight, the yellow janitors cart squeaking to a halt as he took in the man before him. He was tall, incredibly so, dwarfing Louis even as he stooped, and his legs seemed to go on forever, only ending when they hit a pair of black, sparkling boots that came to a point at the toe. The man (man, man, man, _oh god this wasn’t just some man_ ) was stood in his own mess, green smoothie soaking into the cloth of his boots (how expensive were those? they looked like they could pay Louis’ rent for a good two months) as he stared at Louis, sparkling green eyes astoundingly wide as he began to speak.

Nothing really quite sunk in with Louis, for a moment. Everything was still catching up with him as he took in the fucking _mess_ in front of him. It seemed like it was ages later that it finally hit Louis who was standing before him. And when it did… Well, Harry would tell the story of how his gasp had echoed around them for years after that day.

But, really, he had every right to gasp. Because Harry Styles was standing in his own smoothie in front of Louis Tomlinson. Harry Styles, _Leeds Music Festival Headliner,_ was standing in front of Louis, with a frozen drink that was slowly beginning to resemble puke pruning his toes, as he apologized to Louis, over and over again.

Harry’s voice was slow, languid, despite the palpable tension that Louis could hear behind it as he spoke, the boys embarrassment apparent. Louis stood still for long, long moments still, mouth gaping like a fish out of water, eyes nearly about to pop out of his head as a single thought ran over and over in his head: _Wait until Stan hears about this._

The thought didn’t last long, though, a fact that Louis would end up being incredibly grateful for in his later years.

It was, in fact, something that Harry did that made Louis snap (quit literally) out of his reverie. It was the way he raised his hand. It was a magnificently large hand, a small cross tattooed just below his forefinger catching his eye as Louis tracked the gesture, the movement being nothing but a way to accentuate Harry’s words, Louis just… lost it.

“Are you bloody kidding me?” He exploded, words cutting Harry off mid-sentence, to what was clearly Harry’s surprise. “Are you bloody _kidding,_ mate?! Look, I get the gesture, very sweet. Stay and apologize to the poor fucking boy who has to clean up after _your_ mess. Makes sense. But it’s going on one am, and I’m supposed to be locking up right about now, and instead I’m going to be forced to stay late to clean up you’re fuckin’ _foot prints_ out the door. Do you have any idea how much _work_ that is?! Nothing about cleaning up a mixture of dirt and _blended broccoli_ is considerate, or sweet, or- What the hell are you doing?!”

And yeah, it was nearly one am, and Louis was pissed (Fucking famous trash thinking he could get away with anything he’d like. Nice try, pal.) and yelling and if Harry dared to mutter a word to anyone in relation to Cal Louis was one hundred percent fired (not that he could even care, at this point, this was the tipping point for this job), but he definitely wasn't tired enough to be hallucinating and Harry was _taking off his boots_.

The apologies were slicing through the air again, Harry’s deep voice issuing over and over again, “Fuck, really, I’m so sorry. My mum is coming in tomorrow and I was doing some last minute preps and I couldn’t find the right kind of chicken and I didn’t even _think_ -”

Harry had stepped fully out of his boots, now, long legs bringing him out of the shoes and into the dry space that Louis stood in, Harry pausing for only a moment to turn around and grab the sopping boots from the mess and clutching them to his chest, green running down his blouse (???) before he was speaking again.

“Really, I’ll help. I’m great at mopping, my older sister used to have me do it all the time for chocolate. It’s no problem. I’m so, so sorry, if there’s anything I can-” Harry had lunged for the mop, then, Louis yanking the cart back by instinct more than anything. And, Christ, the boy had smoothie dripping down his shirt, and his socked toes were wiggling in the cold and Louis suddenly found himself cutting off Harry’s voice again ( _The_ Harry Styles had seemed to become a bit more… human in the past thirty seconds, with his jumbled words and blushing face).

“No, it’s fine- really, just. It’s fine, yeah. I shouldn’t have yelled, it’s just- It’s late, yeah? Sorry. Just, fuck try not to dri- Ah. No, it’s fine, I-” he couldn’t decide if he were pissed more at the mess or at himself, now, for refusing the boys offer to clean his mess. It made sense, and yet the embarrassed apology that was so clear in Harry’s eyes had Louis turning down the offer point blank, clutching the mop to his chest in defiance of Harry’s pleading words.

Stan is never going to believe this.

Louis almost missed Harry’s next words, because of that thought, the man (nervously?) pushing curls from his face as he spoke, “I can make it up to you, alright? Could I, like, take you to lunch tomorrow? Or tea? Or some way to sit down and properly apologize for what a mess I’ve created? Maybe we can figure out a way to write a letter to your boss to get your promoted or something? Just, let me apologize. Properly.”

Louis, to this day, has absolutely no idea why he agreed.

-

The way Harry likes to tell it, it was nothing short of a miracle that he was having such a hardcore health phase the month before his mum came into town. Because, really, what was the likelihood of drinking a mango, banana, and leafy greens smoothie at 12:30 in the morning if not for an incredibly healthy diet and vague insanity? Without the smoothie made from plants, Harry would have never met the beautiful boy behind the Tesco counter (he had even been on his way out, without any purchases, when the cursed thing broke open).

And if that was a miracle… really, Harry had no way to describe the next day. He had woken up ridiculously early, a jumble of nerves and excitement. He’d had four hours to kill until he and the boy (Louis, he had learned when the two of them exchanged numbers the night before) met for lunch at a cafe that he was around the block from, and he crammed nearly every single one of them with crappy telly and lukewarm tea (save the last half-hour when he dressed in tight black skinny jeans, blew his hair dry from a ten minute shower, and donned a tan button down decorated in horses).  

He had opted to walk to the cafe that day, music wafting from his phone as he walked, humming quietly and swinging his arms. He’d thought it was a good idea, taking side streets to avoid fans and getting in exercise, but he ended up having to stop for a good five girls, taking photos, receiving twitter handles, and making videos for friends of friends. This only resulted in him jogging the rest of the way to the cafe in hopes of being on time, hair flying out behind him and breaths coming in shorts pants when he arrived, a small sheen of sweat over his forehead. To say the least, it wasn’t the best way to show up to what Harry had hoped he would be able to turn into a date, at some point along the way.

But it ended up going magnificently, the two boys getting on surprisingly well, and getting on much, much better than originally expected. Because lunch turned to dinner, and dinner turned to breakfast, and things went smashingly. And they hadn’t even like… They hadn’t even really _slept_ together. Not in the sense most would have expected with those words, anyways. They’d just.. dropped off on the couch, Louis with his head in Harry’s lap and Harry tilted sideways. He’d had a massive crick in his neck in the morning, but it’d been worth it a thousand times over, if you’d asked him. It was so, so worth it.

And the best part? Harry had gotten to make things even better. Because at some point in between dinner and breakfast, Harry had asked about Louis’ job at Tesco, wondering why someone like Louis was working at a job he so clearly loathed. And Louis had seemed a tad delirious and tired and he’d gone on for what felt like forever about his friend Stan attending Leeds Music Fest without him, and how he’d sworn that this year he would attend, even if it killed him. But procrastination had gotten the better of him and now he was working two jobs to get a ticket and…

Well, that wasn’t a problem. It’d taken a bit of convincing (not really, but Harry couldn’t hold that against the boy) and a lot of prodding but… Harry had seen Louis again. And again, and again, and again, and somewhere along the way they had ended up at Leeds Music Festival and Louis had looked like a little boy on Christmas morning for two days straight and now it was the last two hours of the third day, and Harry was making his last tuning adjustments on his guitar, Louis watching him with a small smile as he swung his legs from the bench he was sat on.

Harry spared a glance at the boy, smile wide and dimples deep as he raised his eyebrows at him, waggling them playfully. Louis gave a happy laugh (a sound Harry would never, ever tire of) and shook his head, brushing his fringe from his eyes. “I still can’t believe that I’m about to watch my bloody boyfriend perform from backstage at Leeds,” he said with a grin, eyes sparkling as he looked at Harry.

Harry could feel his entire body buzzing with the word, even after having it applied to him for months. _Boyfriend_. Harry grinned, eyes sparkling as he walked over to the older man, “That’s my job, Tomlinson. Making dreams come true and all that.” He winked, bending down to press a kiss to Louis’ mouth as he heard the opening notes to his song ‘Happily.’ Harry had a tap at his shoulder, a small woman saying, “Thirty seconds, Mr. Styles.”

He nodded her away, trying to remember that she was only doing her job, that she wasn’t purposefully interrupting Harry while he tried to snog his boyfriend. She _wasn’t_. Still, Louis seemed to be on the same wavelength, throwing a dirty glance at her retreating back before dragging Harry in for another kiss, this one taking up the rest of the first twenty seconds of Harry’s intro.

“Ten seconds!” Harry heard, from somewhere behind him, and he gave a breathy chuckle, rolling his eyes at Louis as he pulled away, readjusting his guitar strap on his shoulder.

“Knock ‘em dead, darling,” Louis said with a wink, sitting himself back on the bench and grinning broadly at Harry as the younger man began walking towards the stage.

Harry tucked those words in his chest, then, and walked on stage, answering the screams of the crowd with his lyrics, his voice, his guitar.

It was right after ‘Happily’ that Harry gave out his message, calling, “Oh and Stan? Louis says to ‘suck it.’” And the crowd was confused but hyped, and they didn’t care, the moment already forgotten as Harry launched into ‘Through the Dark’ turning to glance at Louis for just a few seconds, met by the sight of the smaller boy doubled over in laughter, shoulders shaking as he danced around, eyes never leaving Harry.

And everything was damn _good_ , if Harry did say so himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyyy. First oneshot (hopefully not my last?) and I don't think it's total trash, really. Feedback is appreciated, and thank you so much for giving this a shot. :)


End file.
